


I've Shown You Everything; Give Me A Sign

by jesshelga



Series: Waltzing Along [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fight Sex, Frottage, M/M, lots of unpunctuated inner monologuing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-29
Updated: 2012-04-29
Packaged: 2017-11-04 12:58:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/394144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jesshelga/pseuds/jesshelga
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which John's sexual crisis takes a back seat to John's emotional post-Fall crisis which is set off by Sherlock (unsurprisingly) heading off without John for the day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I've Shown You Everything; Give Me A Sign

John, quite simply, had to take care of the situation at hand. In a manner of speaking.

He’d awoken to an erection of distracting size and magnitude, as though he was 13 years old again. It wouldn’t, couldn’t be ignored away. Or at least John didn’t _want_ to ignore it, which was a giddy feeling he hadn’t experienced in quite a while.

He found the petroleum jelly he kept for such occasions just in reach under his mattress and box spring, took out a generous daub, pulled himself free of his boxers, and applied it liberally, relishing the sensation, somewhere between mind-melting bliss and relief, and for the first few strokes, simply relished the feeling of stimulation.

But as John raced himself towards the finish line, he idly thought of Sherlock, in his room in the wee hours of the morning, dressing gown meticulously arranged, leaning over him, taking his pulse in the dark. John increased his speed and pressure, looking at the medical bag, carefully arranged, like a still-life metaphor of one of Sherlock’s pointed and silent thought sessions. And that bloody passport, like an offering...a puzzling and still unexplained offering.

 _”Is that how playing doctor works?”_ Sherlock’s voice echoed.

With a deep groan, John came, making a glorious, satisfying mess of his top sheet.

* * *

Naturally, and as per usual, matters became more complicated after orgasm.

John showered, then dressed for the day, taking more care than usual with his hair as he thought over the morning’s event. He wanted to convince himself he hadn’t been turned on by _Sherlock,_ per se, but it was hard to wrestle events into any order that would support it. Once you’ve come by imagining someone’s voice, you start to lose any grounds you may have built by telling an invisible audience “I didn’t picture any particular sex act” and “I’m 40 years old and have never done anything remotely gay thus far.”

It was a bit of a watershed moment, he supposed, having one’s best friend and flatmate come back from the dead. John wasn’t sure what the precedent was for normal emotions and behavior was in a situation such as this. The fact that the two of them hadn’t spent a single second out of one another’s sight since Sherlock’s return likely wasn’t helping matters. And Sherlock was certainly many things in his life, but one thing he was _not_ was John’s compass for proper interactions and relationships.

John knew his uncomfortable reaction last night had set off a chain of events. But the end result was logical: he and Sherlock would communicate as though they were solving a case. Clues and intentions to be sussed out. And then a dramatic reveal.

Catching sight of his face in the mirror, John sighed, waiting for the noticeable flush across his cheeks and ears to dissipate.

After a time, John walked over to his bed, pulled the sheets off and stuffed them in the hamper, then grabbed the passport from his nightstand. After fiddling with it a moment or two while he thought, he settled for slipping it into the back pocket of his jeans until he could transfer it to the inside breast pocket of his jacket.

* * *

As John descended the stairs cautiously, John realized he had yet to settle on how to ask Sherlock about the business with the pulse-taking and the passport-moleskin-Watson primer. The knowledge that Sherlock was no doubt up and about compelled John to head into the situation unprepared. It was very likely, he thought, as he entered the common areas, that Sherlock would entirely derail any plan he may commit to anyhow.

“Sherlock? You up?” The kitchen and living room were empty at first glance. John checked the bathroom--empty too--then tapped on Sherlock’s bedroom door. Receiving no reply, John opened it to find that it too was vacant.

Heading back towards the kitchen, John found a note trapped to the fridge with a magnet John had bought, as a sort of joke, from the Dartmoor National Park Authority.

**Lestrade called. Shouldn’t be long. SH.**

John felt his face settling into a stony, calm mask. Fucking derailed indeed.

* * *

Stewing, John went to the clinic and picked up a few hours. The work was enough to keep his hands, if not his mind, occupied. In his downtime, he glanced restless at his phone, which remained frustratingly free of text messages.

After the last patient had been stitched up and the last file returned to administration, John was barely out the door before he sent a text:

**Done playing Lone Ranger?**

It took John 30 minutes to arrive back at Baker Street, pick up a sandwich, and head upstairs.

No text. No Sherlock.

* * *

John sent a second text as the afternoon was beginning to skirt the early evening hours and waited only five minutes before calling Greg’s cell.

“Hello, John?” Lestrade sounded instantly concerned, which made John feel as though he were beginning to bristle all over with worry.

“Is Sherlock with you? Or at Bart’s?”

“Not as far as I know. Sherlock came by this morning to help with a quick smash-and-grab. I had a feeling he was familiar with the perpetrator--one of his homeless fellas--and once he heard the victim’s description, he was off again.”

“Okay then.” John found he was gritting his teeth without meaning to do so.

* * *

**What is so fucking difficult about not leaving me behind?**

John typed and erased no less than five versions before giving up, then destroying his second phone in less than two weeks, this time by launching it--no cricket pitch, this one--against the side of a building.

His temper and Sherlock were becoming an expensive, annoying habit once again.

* * *

John recognized bargaining seeping in around 8:30 p.m. He and Ella had discussed it often before he’d given up on therapy. He tended to do a lot of bargaining when it came to Sherlock, she’d observed; why did he think that was?

Because he’s a fucking child, John had said. Because I’d do anything for him, John had thought silently to himself.

Because, because, because.

But self-awareness couldn’t and wouldn’t stop John from thinking, “Please, God or Mycroft or anyone who can do anything about this, please, please let him come back to me. I promise I will not be _very_ angry if he is simply being a selfish prick. Please don’t let him be hurt or dead.”

* * *

After purchasing a new phone, John returned home. The flat was silent. John’s new phone was silent.

So in lieu of texting God, John texted the other omnipotent, all-powerful entity he knew.

“Do you know where Sherlock is?”

The response was nearly instantaneous. John sank into a chair as though his body had melted into a liquid state.

**“We’re nearly finished. I’ll send a car. Please don’t destroy your phone.”**

Despite the debilitating relief, John was fully capable of texting “Fuck off” in reply.

* * *

The car arrived ten minutes later and pulled up to a nondescript warehouse building twenty minutes after that. Sherlock popped out the main doors 45 seconds later, followed by Mycroft, who never stopped talking. Sherlock, unsurprisingly, appeared not to be listening. His focus on the car was such that John broke down and jumped out of the car.

“John,” Mycroft said, his version of amusement in his voice. “If I’d known a debriefing would cause you anxiety, you could have joined us.”

John felt a dangerous rattle somewhere in his ribcage; Sherlock gave him a look between understanding and warning and placating, and John unclenched his fist.

“Mycroft,” Sherlock said coolly. Mycroft nodded, a gleam of contentment in his eye that suggested Sherlock’s 13 months of investigation had yielded a gem or two for Her Majesty’s Government.

John turned on his heel and walked back towards the car, only to feel a faint brush along his backside seconds later.

He turned to find Sherlock in possession of the passport once again. Sherlock looked from the passport to John, that unsettling, dismantling look in his eye.

To hell with everything I promised God and/or Mycroft, John thought, getting into the car. I’m bloody _furious._

* * *

They rode home together in silence. John found himself in a maelstrom of feelings and thoughts himself that started with _This morning, I sexually pleasured myself, likely because of whatever modified version of flirtation we are doing, which isn’t natural, because I’m_ straight, _but then you left me, you_ left _me, you left after--well, maybe not_ promising _exactly, but you were going to try not to leave me behind, and I came downstairs with no plan, which means we very well could have been having sex all day instead of me running around trying to find you because you’re a thoughtless prick, and I_ hate _that your brother knew I’d smashed my phone, did he tell you that between various threads of political and criminal intrigue?_

If Sherlock found John’s thinking too loud, he did not say. Instead, after tucking the passport back into the breast pocket of his coat-- _I was planning to do that too, you know_ John thought silently--Sherlock looked at John looking at him, and they both turned their gaze out their respective windows.

* * *

Fairly sprinting out of the car, John made it into the flat and headed up to his room; naturally, Sherlock followed uninvited and walked in to see John throwing clothes into a duffel.

“Why are you packing an overnight bag?”

“I can’t stay here right now.”

“Why?” The lack of Sherlockian disdain or impatience in the question made John’s heart begin to pound unnaturally hard.

“Because I’m angry, and I don’t think it’s a good idea.” John grabbed his toiletry bag out of the bathroom and shoved it inelegantly amongst his clothes.

“You’re angry because Mycroft displaced me for twelve hours?” Sherlock directed his question not to John, but to John’s mussed unmade bed, which meant that heading downstairs was not only necessary but _extremely_ necessary.

“I’m _angry_ because you left”-- _my medical bag and passport next to me and took my pulse while I slept and how is this_ working _on me? My libido’s been inert ever since you died, and now you’re seducing me with a yearly exam_ \--” this _morning_ to see Lestrade, and I’m angry because...I am. I just am. I’m...probably still angry about...everything. I need time, Sherlock. I just need time. I should have taken time three weeks ago.”

Silence prevailed for minutes before Sherlock stated, “In case I didn’t make it clear, I am sorry for whatever distress my absence may have caused you.”

The words were so formal, so devoid of expression, that John felt a white-hot crackle of fury spread through his chest. All the implications of the passport, the morning’s solo performance, were momentarily forgotten. “Distress? That’s what you’d call it? Is that what Molly told you it looked like when she she and I saw each other in that coffee shop three months in?”

After seconds had ticked by, Sherlock spoke again. “She said you’d grown a beard.”

“Well, that should tell you something,” John said hollowly.

“Your life was in danger.” The words were clipped, with a tone of finality that made John resentful.

“My life is nearly _always_ in danger.”

“This danger was more imminent.”

John threw his hands up. “Fine. You win. Pretending to throw yourself off a building and subjecting me to the sight of your brains all over the pavement was exactly the right decision. Clearly, I am being foolish by not accepting that.”

“John, it was one thing for you to call me a machine when you believed I was ignoring the implications of Mrs. Hudson dying, but it’s quite another to imply I didn’t...” Sherlock’s sentence ground to a halt there, and John took the opportunity to head down the stairs into the living room.

“...that it wasn’t _difficult._ ” Sherlock concluded as he reached the living room seconds later.

“You mean that playacting you did on the roof? All choked up at the thought of what? Getting another one over on me?”

Without fully intending it, John had apparently found the line and crossed about a mile beyond it. There was a brief but clear flash of hurt in his expression, and then Sherlock’s eyes narrowed into slits, chiseling the blue irises down until they were mere gleams of light. “Playacting?” he spat, taking a hard step forward and shoving John with both hands, forcing John to stumble back. _“Playacting?”_ was repeated, as was the shove, which knocked John into one of Sherlock’s low tables full of books. Several volumes toppled off as John struggled to keep his footing.

Once his balance was regained, John came at Sherlock full speed, aiming for a modified tackle, which Sherlock was obviously prepared for, as he rounded his body, then wrapped his arms around John to grapple him back against the wall.

They scrimmaged for a time. John could tell Sherlock shared his reluctance to actually hurt or maim, but nevertheless, they were each determined to get the upper hand. Striking out, punching, or kicking was set aside in favor of shoving, grabbing handfuls of clothing, ruthless manhandling of limbs, and, in John’s case, prodigious cursing. Finally, a second collision with the table full of books caused John to lose his footing and fall backwards, an iron grip on Sherlock’s jacket bringing his flatmate square on top of him, knocking the breath out of him.

John tried to squirm out from under while dragging air into his reluctant lungs, but Sherlock began grabbing at his wrists, trying to pin him in place. “Get off, you stupid bastard,” John groaned, his shoulder and back beginning to ache fiercely.

“Or _what_? You’ll continue your tirade? Ruin my shirt a little more?” Sherlock countered, wriggling his lower body to shift his weight around. The resulting friction caused John a flash of pleasure throughout his groin. The back of his head thudded into the floor as he tried to escape the sensation.

“You wanker. I...” the words _hate_ you lost in another round of pelvis-grinding, which now seemed to be less about wrestling and more about causing John the maximum amount of inescapable discomfort. “Get off. Right now, Sherlock. I mean it.”

The second meaning of his first sentence struck John, but never seemed to dawn on Sherlock, perhaps because he was preoccupied with John’s growing erection making itself known. Their eyes met and, shaking off Sherlock’s slackening hold on his wrist, John put his hand on Sherlock’s neck and leaned up.

Considering the situation--lying on the floor, at least one erection between them--John supposed the kiss he gave Sherlock was rather chaste. He didn’t open his mouth, just pressed his lips to Sherlock’s, breathing hard and heavy through his nose, shaking from all the exertion. There was a soft snicking noise when John’s lower lip parted from Sherlock’s. The sound seemed to affect Sherlock like a gunshot; he flinched up with eyes bright and startled.

John kissed him a second time, eyes open, lips only slightly parted. Sherlock made a minor adjustment so that his legs straddled John’s torso. Caught by surprise, John emitted a groan that trailed into a gasp; Sherlock took advantage of the resulting open mouth, pressing forward and introducing a clever, determined tongue into the activity.

Though the kissing continued at a steady, reasonable pace, Sherlock seemed unable to make his hips and torso follow the same cues, and the resulting writhing made matters too distracting and urgent for John’s tastes. “Sherlock, you have to slow down with that,” he said, grabbing at Sherlock’s waist.

Sherlock paid no attention, snuffling along John’s neck, then attaching to his right earlobe, sucking and nibbling, and moving on to the pulse point behind his ear. John stilled his hands and tried to think of the last time he’d washed back there--age 12, maybe--when a muffled voice mumbled, “It’s acceptably clean.”

“Are you listen...you clearly aren’t. _Please_...it’s been too long, and I don’t think I can...”

Sherlock steadied himself by placing a hand on either side of John’s head and, arching with precision, began a steady, maddening sort of grinding.

“ _Christ_!” John gritted, half-plea, half-uncontrolled euphoria. “You...bastard.”

Despite his increasing shortness of breath, Sherlock managed to gasp out, “You’ve used ‘bastard’ twice.”

“You are a bastard twice.” John twisted against him, hands bearing down on Sherlock’s ass in a futile effort to try and still him.

“You’re nearly there.” The words were whispered into John’s ear, low and thick like clover honey. Sherlock punctuated the factual statement by catching the bottom of John’s earlobe between his teeth again--not biting or nibbling, just _holding_ and _waiting_. Trying to suppress a groan--not at all successfully--John pressed his hips up into Sherlock and came.

A moment or two later, John realized Sherlock was issuing directives, moving himself against the growing wet spot on John’s jeans. “Keep gripping my buttocks. Good.”

“Are you _bossing_ me?” John muttered, wishing he had the energy to do anything other than what he was doing, which was complying weakly with Sherlock’s orders.

Sherlock’s eyes met his as he continued debauching himself on John’s pelvis. “ _Please_ keep gripping my buttocks. Honestly, John, you’ve _had_ yours.”

“My back and shoulder are killing me while you rut away, so anything I can do to help...”

Sherlock paused a moment, a hazy smile taking over his features. “I’ve missed your ridiculous grumbling, you know.”

The sincerity of it all caught John unawares. He was worn out and uncomfortable and his shoulder was now barking, but for the moment, all he could concentrate on was blinking back a sudden sting in his eyes. He wriggled a hand between himself and Sherlock and cupped at the arousal straining at Sherlock’s expensive-feeling trousers.

“Do you want me to take you out?” he asked; Sherlock’s response was a muted moan as he moved against John’s hand.

“No, thank you; if you could move your...” John stroked, adjusting his palm until he found the head of Sherlock’s dick, then moved his hand in small, gentle circles; Sherlock put his chin on his chest and sighed, rocking his hips steadily forward.

When Sherlock’s rhythm picked up again, then developed an edge of desperation to it, he dropped himself unceremoniously onto John, buried his long fingers in John’s hair, and released, adding to the increasingly uncomfortable wetness between them.

Sherlock rolled off and lay himself out next to John as though he were beginning a snow angel, arms in a dramatic T, head pitched back to allow him to draw in a deep, cleansing breath.

Rubbing at his left shoulder, trying to work the ache out with his fingers, John smirked, “‘You’ve got yours.’ Really, really spectacular.”

“Actually, it was ‘You’ve _had_ yours.’” Sherlock corrected, the amusement causing his voice to curl and slink through the air. The two of them shared a brief chuckle flat on their backs, and John was startled by how _natural_ it all seemed. “Are you going to need help standing up?” Sherlock asked in a straightforward way John appreciated was not designed to make him feel pitied and old.

“I absolutely will. Just...give us a moment.” John tried to stretch out some of the kinks while also readjusting himself down below (and that was going to smart nearly as much as the shoulder, John thought to himself; it had been ages since he’d participated in that kind of over-the-clothes business). “Okay.”

Sherlock got to his feet like a dancer, all lithe and graceful, damn him, John thought, and extended a hand down. Suddenly mindful of his left hand being a little sticky and damp, John reached up with his right and let Sherlock help him to a sitting position, then a crouch.

“All right?” Sherlock said after John stood and groaned, gingerly reaching out to clasp John’s left shoulder, giving him a friendly shake. John nodded, hoping to hide the pleasure and relief Sherlock’s firm touch was providing to his aching muscles.

He hoped in vain, because Sherlock took a step forward and began to knead, drawing a sigh of contentment and relief from John’s lips. He placed a hand on Sherlock’s hip and dropped his head.

“You’ve been with men before, right?” John asked the floor between them.

“Yes.” Sherlock affirmed with a hesitation in his voice.

“Well, at least one of us knows what we’re doing,” John sighed in reply.

“I guarantee you, John, that you and I are on _very_ equal footing with regards to this matter, when all factors are considered.”

John glanced up and found Sherlock looking down on him, a distinct mix of concern and fondness on his face. “I take it your Work never rubbed Itself off on you on the living room floor then?”

“Not with any sort of regularity,” Sherlock smiled.

John tightened his fingers into Sherlock’s shirt. “Suppose an apology is in order.”

“Implied and accepted,” was punctuated by Sherlock’s working his thumb around John’s clavicle. “Though these trousers are dry clean only, which is inconvenient.”

John smiled and resisted purring with pleasure as Sherlock’s shoulder massage deepened. He closed his eyes and said, “I’m still very confused. Probably more so now.”

“I imagine.” Sherlock’s tone was enigmatic, and John tried to picture the corresponding expression without opening his eyes.

“You’re not confused?”

“Not particularly. Granted, I am aware the situation is...more emotionally _complicated_...than in previous chapters of our acquaintance, between my return from the dead and this recent session of sexual congress between us. But I...I know my own intentions, and they are to remain here with you. For the duration or until such time as events force me to fake my death again.”

John found himself reluctantly smirking at Sherlock’s inappropriate joke.

After a moment or two, Sherlock’s hand dropped away from John’s shoulder, and John opened his eyes. “'Sexual congress'? Leave it to you to find the most archaic...”

“Well, it wasn’t exactly _intercourse_ , was it?” Sherlock snapped impatiently.

In response, John reached up and playfully clapped his hand to Sherlock’s face in a modified slap. “‘For the duration.’ I liked that part.”

“I thought you might. You’re predictable in your sentimentality.” It would have been a cutting sentence were it not for the way it was murmured, rumbling and low, while Sherlock ran his hands all over.

“I’m a wreck,” John announced. “I need a shower and a new set of clothes and some paracetamol. Also, I hope Mrs. Hudson was out.”

“She was. Senior singles dance night down at the center.” The way Sherlock was winding himself around John suggested all the stuff about a shower in the near future was bollocks. The contact, affectionate and intimate, caused one of John’s tethers to snap.

“I missed you too, you know. God, I missed you.” John tightened his arms and pressed his face to Sherlock’s chest, comforted to hear the steady rhythm of Sherlock’s heart returning to resting pulse.

“Come along, John.” The familiar phrase buzzed into the crown of John’s head as Sherlock leaned towards his bedroom door.

“You going to tell me about that passport?” Despite everything that had happened, and would likely continue to happen, John found it hard to make eye contact with Sherlock, but he had to after an extended silence suggested Sherlock was speaking with a look.

That look said, “I’ve already told you, you idiot. Weren’t you listening?”

John sighed and pushed Sherlock towards his open bedroom door.

**Author's Note:**

> Title again from James, this time from "Say Something," however tempting it was to call it "The Neighbors Complain About The Noises Above." Not Brit-picked. Appreciate if you find minor tweaks (my usual betas are otherwise occupied this weekend).


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